![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
You know, I finally got a chance to look through all these old files I found of my writing. Writing from clear back in freshman year of high school. File after file, page after page. There must be at least a couple hundred pages full of short stories I never finished, poetry, playlettes, essays, speeches and notes on my thoughts at the time. I found the beginning of Red Rose of Winter - a novel(!) that I started in 1999. I got to page 100 and couldn't find anymore. I must have stopped after that. I can't tell you how many pages and pages of unfinished work there is in all of these files. Things I haven't thought about in years. It's gotten me to thinking about where I'm at now.
I used to write. And, dammit, I was good. I won contests and awards. I used to want to be a writer more than anything in the world. It used to be my dream. It used to be my passion. It used to be me.
What happened? When did I give it up? When did I give up my dream? When did I let my realism take over something that was so important to me? I think I remember what happend. I got writer's block. For a while I tried to write, but everything I wrote turned out to be crap. But why didn't that just make me work even harder? Going back through all of these makes me really sad. Because I realize now I have no dreams. All I dream about now is just being done with school. Yes, I want to be a psychologist. Yes, I want to help people. But it's not my dream. It's something I know I'll be good at, and something I know I'll make a fortune at. But that doesn't mean it's everything I want. When did this happen to me? When did I give in? It must have been when I grew up. And got "real". I don't want to be real anymore. I want to have that innocent belief that I can do whatever I want and be able to survive. I want to again believe that all I need to make it in life is a pen and some paper. I guess that's the price. I feel really crappy and souless right now.
I used to write. And, dammit, I was good. I won contests and awards. I used to want to be a writer more than anything in the world. It used to be my dream. It used to be my passion. It used to be me.
What happened? When did I give it up? When did I give up my dream? When did I let my realism take over something that was so important to me? I think I remember what happend. I got writer's block. For a while I tried to write, but everything I wrote turned out to be crap. But why didn't that just make me work even harder? Going back through all of these makes me really sad. Because I realize now I have no dreams. All I dream about now is just being done with school. Yes, I want to be a psychologist. Yes, I want to help people. But it's not my dream. It's something I know I'll be good at, and something I know I'll make a fortune at. But that doesn't mean it's everything I want. When did this happen to me? When did I give in? It must have been when I grew up. And got "real". I don't want to be real anymore. I want to have that innocent belief that I can do whatever I want and be able to survive. I want to again believe that all I need to make it in life is a pen and some paper. I guess that's the price. I feel really crappy and souless right now.
